Trouble for Two
by Airealataiel
Summary: Tag: Post-Swan Song. Dean's living the apple pie life, ignorant of his brother's return, but when a sinister demon gets his hands on Sam, it's Dean against the clock to save his brother.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Trouble for Two

**Themes**: Angst, guilt, kidnap, torture, hurt/comfort

**Setting**: After 'Swan Song.' This is an alternate version of what happened after Sam's return to corporeal existence. Dean follows Sam's advice to live a normal life, but one day six months later something comes up that threatens his brother, and it's Dean to the rescue as the clock ticks.

**Rating**: T/M for language and graphic violence.

-0-0-

It started out like any other typical post-apocalyptic Wednesday. Dean Winchester awoke to the _beep-beep-beep_ of the alarm clock on the bedside table, snapping him more than kindly out of the nightmare that he had been having. With a graceless swing of his free arm, he thumped the snooze button, then pressed his eyes closed and squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the images that threatened to burn themselves permanently onto his retinas. After taking a moment to push the newest haunting pictures to the back of his mind, Dean opened his eyes to absorb the beauty of the morning and the woman beside him.

Accustomed to broken bones, swollen ugly bruises, homestyle patch-up jobs, stiff joints and sore muscles from long nights in the Impala, scratchy hotel sheets, greasy burger joints, the occasional hangover, and passionate but empty sex, home life had come as a surprise to the elder Winchester brother. He would never admit it, but Dean cherished little moments like these—like waking up in the morning next to this beautiful woman who loved him, surrounded by her scent, an arm draped across his chest in acceptance and trust; like the sun shining through the bedroom curtains, fully knowing that on the other side of the window was his own front yard, and across the street were friendly and trustworthy neighbors rather than skanky roadies; like playing ball with Ben and teaching him how to fix things. Yea, so maybe living the white-picket-fence life was turning him into a sissy, but he liked to think he was simply gaining an appreciation for the small comforts in life. Still, you'd never hear him saying it out loud.

Dean sighed when the alarm started up again, hitting the off button this time, and grudgingly slid out of the warm bed. Lisa shifted a little in her sleep, perhaps noticing subconsciously the absence of her partner's barrel chest_. _

'_Cute,'_ Dean thought, his lips pulling into an amused smirk before he planted a soft kiss on her forehead and shuffled to the closet for his work clothes. A few minutes later, with a backward glance of affection for his very own dark haired beauty, he slipped from the room and made his way to the kitchen.

The past six months had given Dean a lot of time to figure out what it meant to be a family man, but there were still times when he felt rather out of place. Still, six months had also formed in him little habits that hadn't existed before, and mornings seemed to be his specialty. Dean Winchester, at the stove at 8am before the rest of the family was even awake, making breakfast and packing lunches, was a sight that no one from his previous life would have believed. But when Lisa and Ben wandered downstairs following the beckoning scent of eggs, toast, and bacon, they slipped into a comfortable routine.

"Good morning," Lisa whispered, the smile evident in her voice as she snaked her arms around Dean's stomach and pressed herself to his back, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Morning," he responded warmly. "What are the plans for today?"

She kissed his cheek chastely and then moved to the cupboard to grab plates and glasses for the three of them. "The usual. Oh, and Ben has a soccer game after school today."

"Yea?"

"Are you gonna come?" Ben asked hopefully, plopping down at the table.

Dean shifted his weight and glanced over his shoulder at the young boy who was eyeing him expectantly. "I'll try. Depends on how much I've got at the shop today. Ya wanna give me your plate?" He tipped some scrambled eggs and a couple slices of bacon onto the dish and handed it back.

-0-0-

Running. Long legs aching, lungs burning, extreme fatigue blurring his vision, Sam Winchester was running harder and faster than he'd ever run before—which was really saying something. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he'd thrown himself into the pit of Hell and, having surprisingly found himself given a second chance at life, didn't feel like wasting it, but he really didn't relish being caught by his pursuer.

For the past six months, he'd been on the hunt, slaughtering as many baddies as he could find. Only problem was, it seemed as though the last little escapade had brought him one step too close to a danger he couldn't handle on his own, and he'd been followed ever since. And now, he was running for his life.

Sam sprinted past a drugstore and a restaurant that hadn't opened yet due to the early hour, then rounded the corner and rushed into a dark alleyway, still cool from the not long past evening. Crouching down beside a dumpster and pressing his back against brick, he glanced around to get his bearings. The demon had gotten wind of him last night and had forced Sam to attempt escape on foot; he'd been avoiding capture for hours. Now he sat, panting and exhausted, senses on edge, eyes darting around nervously, fingers fumbling in his pockets to reassure himself that he was still armed.

'_It couldn't've been him…' _he thought, a little panicked. _'He's supposed to be dead.'_

A thud and a crunch from nearby jerked him back to attention. Carefully extracting the silver blade that had been tucked into his boot, Sam shifted his weight and strained his ears, ready to spring up at the tiniest pindrop.

"Come out, come out, Sammy," a voice growled. Sam jumped up and stared around wildly, circling in a defensive stance. A chuckle from the shadows. "Ahh, Sam, why don't you put that away? Besides, it won't do you any good against me. We're both grown-ups here. Let's play nice."

"Fat chance," Sam bit back, hiding the fear from his voice even while his heart hammered in his throat. "And if you're such a grown-up, why don't you come face me. Or are you scared?"

"Tsk tsk, so hostile," the voice drawled. "Really, that's not necessary."

"Oh, I think it is," Sam spat back. However, the silence that greeted him was more unnerving than the voice had been. Then without warning, there was a barely perceptible blur of movement from behind him and before he even had time to react, the blade was knocked from his grasp. A very familiar blast of force threw him against the cold stone wall, blood trickling down the side of his face where it smashed into the brick. A black shoe stepped out of the shadows, followed by a leg, torso, and then a bone-chillingly familiar face.

"You!" Sam gasped between pained grunts against the pressure that held him flat against the wall.

The demon smiled crookedly, straightening out his sleeves with practiced nonchalance. "Yes. _Me. _Happy to see me?" Sam did his best to scowl through a grimace of pain. "Hmmm, I see you're not going to make this any easier for me," the man voiced pensively. "Are you sure you want to do it like this? It would be much less painful if you came without a fight."

Sam gritted his teeth, staring into the delighted eyes of the demon before him. "Eat me," he spat.

"I don't think that would be very pleasant," the demon replied, picking up a piece of scrap metal as though curious. "I'm really sorry we have to do this the hard way." The pipe collided with Sam's skull with a sickening clang and everything went black.

-0-0-

As Dean followed the familiar roads to the mechanic shop downtown, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He didn't have any reason to think anything was wrong, actually, but call it old instincts. A painful image from the recurring nightmare he'd had again last night and had been trying not to think about flashed before his eyes. Sam, bloody, screaming. Dean groaned and shook his head.

Ever since his little brother had condemned himself to the pit in order to save the rest of the world from destruction, Dean had been having the most excruciating nightmares involving the punishment that he couldn't prevent his Sammy from having to suffer. During his waking hours he had to use all of his force of will to push those thoughts to the back of his mind, but once his head hit the pillow they all rushed to the surface. There were more times than he could count that he woke up and had to rush to the bathroom to avoid vomiting all over the comforter.

'_It was only a dream,' _he forced himself to think. _'Still, what the hell?'_

Dean was preoccupied all morning. He tried to remind himself that if he didn't work up to his normal speed he wouldn't be able to get off in time to watch Ben's game, but even then he could only go through the motions. By the time lunch rolled around, half of his coworkers were beginning to ask him if everything was alright.

"Yea, I'm fine," he said for the fifth time, getting frustrated. A further retort was prevented by his phone ringing. He slipped off his gloves, wiped his greasy hands on his pants, and stuffed his hand in his pocket for his cell. "Yea?"

The caller was mysteriously silent, and the line went dead. Dean grunted, a deeper feeling of unease settling into his stomach as he checked the caller id; the number was unlisted. Before he could try returning the call though, his phone rang again and this time he recognized the number.

"Hey Sid."

"Dean. Wanna meet up at Carter's? They have two-for-one burgers today."

"Yea, okay," he replied distractedly, "see ya in a few."

As per his baby brother's dying request, he hadn't hunted in six months, but as he wove his way through traffic to his favorite local bar and restaurant Dean found himself going over news reports and facts in his head, searching for signs of anything supernatural. Nothing seemed to stick out, but this day was feeling more and more abnormal.

Sid blabbered his way through lunch, not seeming to notice that Dean wasn't paying even a speck of attention. Then it happened. Dean's phone rang. He picked it up and glanced at the caller id, his blood running ice cold. Unknown number.

"Hey, you gonna get that?" Sid asked. Dean stared blankly at the screen. "Dude?"

Dean flipped open the phone and brought it to his ear slowly. Sid raised an eyebrow.

"Hello Dean," greeted a voice eerily cold and amused, "it took me a very long time to find this number." Dean's voice was stuck in his throat, which turned out to be good for him, since anything he could've said would have confused the clueless man sitting across from him. "It's okay, I'll do the talking," the man continued. "You're a tough one to track down, Winchester. But I did it. Ha. Of course I did. We've all got our connections."

Dean gritted his teeth in an effort to keep his face from betraying his anger and fear.

"Anyway, we can chat later. Right now I've got a big event to prepare for. I just wanted to drop a line to let you know that I left a little gift for you at your place. I hope you like it."

His pulse quickening, he curled his fingers around the phone until he thought he might break it. His face went ashen faster than the snap of a finger.

"You might want to take the afternoon off. The show starts in an hour, and I don't think you'll want to miss it."

The line went dead. Dean sat frozen, the dial tone buzzing from the phone that he hadn't yet closed.

"Dude, everything alright? You look kinda sick," Sid said, trying to catch his friend's eyes.

Suddenly Dean jumped up and grabbed his keys. "Look, I gotta go." He rushed out of the restaurant without even giving his friend the chance to question. His whole body trembled as he raced home, white knuckled and sweating.


	2. Chapter 2

_The cold voice on the phone numbed his brain. "I left a little gift for you at your place. I hope you like it. The show starts in an hour, and I don't think you'll want to miss it."_

-0-0-

Dean burst through the front door so forcefully that he might have shattered the window panes and sprinted up the stairs two and a time without even closing it behind him. _'I swear to God I'm gonna kill that sonofabitch,' _his thoughts screamed. Ben's room was empty, which was expected since he should be at school, and Lisa wasn't there either, but she had a job, so again, expected. He scoured the house top to bottom and, when nothing seemed out of place, he frantically called Lisa's cell.

"Hey. Aren't you at work honey?"

"Lisa!" he nearly shouted. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Um, I'm at work. What's going on?"

Dean sighed with relief. "Nothing. What about Ben?" His voice tense again.

"He's at school? Dean, are you sure everything's alright?" she asked, concern lacing the edges of her voice.

"No, no, s'fine. I just thought… Just wanted to say hey."

There was a slight sound of disbelief from the other side of the line, then a sigh. "Alright, then. I love you. See you later?"

"Yea, okay. You too." He hung up, then braced his hands on the kitchen counter and hung his head, taking a deep breath. Pulling on his mouth with one hand, his thinking posture, he started going over all of the details of his day and anything else he could think of that might have happened recently. After a few moments of staring off into the distance outside the kitchen window, he saw it.

In his rush to get inside, he had stepped right over a manila envelope lying on the doorstep. He glanced around the edges of the property, up and down and across the street, then bent down to pick up the paper and closed the door behind him.

Inside the envelope was one sheet of paper. At the top in smudged ink printed by an old fashioned typewriter was a web address. Dean flipped it over, but the rest was blank. A tiny bit of black on an expanse of white nothingness. Something was wrong with this picture. This wasn't how demons worked. They came and destroyed things, killed family members, tricked you into doing things that would haunt you; they didn't leave you paper trails and clues, and they certainly didn't have anything to do with something as harmless as the internet.

Still, Dean hadn't found anything else in his entire scouring of the house, so he wandered into the extra bedroom that served as the study and flipped on the computer. While it loaded up, he looked over the address for clues or signs, but it was just a jumble of letters and numbers. He typed it in, and was slightly confused to see nothing but a black page with a rectangular box for a video in the middle. Nothing else was there except for the words "live feed" at the bottom.

Dean's stomach clenched. Something bad was going on here. He checked his watch, heart thumping erratically as he realized that it was only two minutes away from the "show," whatever that was supposed to be. He glued his eyes to the screen, the second hand of the clock on the wall behind him clicking aggravatingly in his brain. Suddenly the box on the screen flickered to life and he leaned in closer.

The image was darkly lit; it seemed to be a simple square room with no decoration, and nothing for furniture except a table littered with many objects that he couldn't make out and a strangely shaped lump that was currently covered with a dark sheet. He could hear shuffling, then silence, and then he gasped and jumped back when the man stepped into view, blocking the weird lumpy shape in the background.

"Hello, Dean. I do hope you're watching this right now, though I think I know you well enough to assume that you are. You might not think you need this little introduction, but I have a story to tell you before we really get started that I think you might enjoy."

"Alistair," Dean growled angrily at the computer screen. "How in the hell are you alive?"

The demon in the video began slowly pacing, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully while keeping his eyes on the camera that recorded his every move and broadcast it into Dean's home. "You see, it all started about two months ago, when I got wind of some _very _interesting news. If I'm going to be honest with you, Dean, I truly couldn't believe it even though I had it from quite a trustworthy source." He paused for a moment to stare stoically into the lens, imagining himself boring into Dean's gaze, then continued his pacing.

"The information I was given was so intriguing, however, that I couldn't prevent myself from doing a little investigating of my own. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that it took me a rather long time, but finally I caught a break. One tiny little slip-up, but I was sharp enough to get a lead out of it." Alistair laughed haughtily, cleared his throat, and went on. "At first I thought to myself, _'I'll just find him, kill him, and live peaceably with my revenge.' _But then, in a rather insightful moment—if I do say so myself—a much more creative plan began to blossom."

Alistair was standing still now, but Dean thought he heard a shuffle. His heart began to pound painfully once again.

"I realized, why should I get my revenge on just one person, _when I can kill two birds with one stone_? And so, I think now we ought to start the show." Alistair stepped out of view, presumably to flip on a light switch, because the next moment the whole screen went white. A few seconds later the camera readjusted to the change in the light source, which was now an agonizingly bright light bulb dangling above the oddly shaped object in the middle of the screen.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as he realized with a start that this object was not a piece of furniture, but was clearly a person sitting on a chair covered in a large piece of black cloth. His mind raced as he began imagining who it could be, which one of his friends Alistair had kidnapped. A pang of fear coursed through him as he thought of Bobby, whom he hadn't talked to since Sam's death. However, when Alistair stepped back into view, shot the camera one very direct smirk, and pulled the sheet off the person's head, Dean thought he was going to vomit.

"NO!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. He white-knuckled the back of the chair, panting and gasping for air, his heart hammering erratically, his stomach heaving and extremely thankful for the fact that he hadn't been able to get to his lunch. The impossibility of the scene before him flashed through his mind. This had to be a joke. There was no way in Hell….

"Yes, believe your eyes, Dean," Alistair cooed silkily, running his long fingers through Sam's wavy brown hair. "Turns out your little brother managed to catch a nice break." He paused. "Well, for a couple of months, anyway. Break's over now, but did you know that he's been out almost since the very day he went in? My guess is probably not, or you wouldn't have let his precious little head out of your sight."

This. This could not be real. It had to be an illusion, meant purely for his torture. Dean could believe that somehow Alistair had managed to find his way back, even though Sam had supposedly ganked the bastard, wiped him clean off the planet. But Sam? Sam being out of Hell? Sam being out of Hell for six months and not coming to find him? That, Dean found hard to believe. He was more than half-tempted to turn off the computer right then and there to prevent seeing whatever was going to happen, but fake or not, this was his baby brother and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I think the prelude has gone on long enough, don't you think, Dean? I say we get started." He watched as Alistair moved away from his brother, approaching the table that had barely held Dean's attention before. Now, as he realized what kinds of objects were undoubtedly waiting there, he felt panic rise inside him.

"Oh, God, no. No no no no no. Sam," he choked.

Alistair, his back to the camera while he prepared something on the table, spoke again. "You know, Dean, the only downside to this whole brilliant arrangement is that I don't get to see your face while I do this. Oh sure, I know it's going to tear you apart, but I'd really like to see it for myself." He chuckled to himself. "Still, I think it's worth it."

Then he turned to Sam's limp form and looked him over. "First we have to wake the giant." Alistair leaned in and slapped Sam hard in the face. The boy groaned and his eyes fluttered slightly. "Glad to see you conscious, Sam," he said, smiling. "I think this might help a little."

Then he addressed Dean, while keeping his eyes fixed on the younger brother's bobbing head. "To add to the fun today, I've recently come up with a wonderful concoction." By the widening of his brother's eyes, Dean suddenly noticed the needle held between the demon's bony fingers. "I got this idea from your brother, Sam. It's just a little cocktail I made up that will keep you in the present."

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the camera and told Dean, "This drug here heightens sensory awareness. Makes every feeling, sound, sight, scent, taste, and thought seem a hundred times magnified. Pretty brilliant, right?" Plunging the needle into the bulging vein in Sam's neck, he pumped the cruel venom into his blood.

"YOU BASTARD!" Dean screamed with rage. "YOU FILTHY SONOFABITCH. I AM GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN YOU MOTHER FUCKING DICK!" He sat back down, thinking that he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet if he had to watch the man who invented torture do a number on his brother.

Sam's eyelids fluttered a moment and then shot open, his pupils dilated in fear, his body trembling.

"My dear Sam," Alistair crooned, "I don't think we've had much time to be properly introduced, other than that embarrassing time a while back. What do you say we get to know each other a little bit better."

Sam bared his teeth and clenched his hands which were tied to the armrests, but said nothing. While Alistair toyed with something at the table, he jerked his head to the camera. "See that over there, Sammy? Your brother is watching us right now, this very moment. Isn't that sweet?"

His too-long hair flew in all directions as he whipped his head up, staring painfully into the camera lens. On the other side, Dean felt his stomach clench with anger. And fear. A thought occurred to him, and without breaking his gaze from the screen for a moment, he fumbled through his pockets until he found his cell.

"Bobby?" he nearly shouted into the phone as soon as he heard the man pick up.

"Dean?" Bobby asked, sounding both surprised to be hearing from him and a little worried at the tone of panic in the younger man's voice.

"Bobby! You have to help me!"

"Calm down, boy," he ordered. "What's the problem?" 

"Alistair has Sam!" he panted.

Bobby was silent for a confused moment. "Come again?"

"You heard me. Alistair got Sam. He's gonna torture him!" Dean watched as Sam shook forcefully, his eyes darting between the demon beside him playing with torture tools on the table and the camera that was positioned across the room.

All Bobby could think to say was, "Sam's topside?"

"Bobby!" Dean screamed, frantic. "Forget about the why! We have'ta fix this."

"Alright, alright. How do you know?"

"Alistair left me a website. He's got a cam on the whole thing. He wants me to watch. Live."

Bobby groaned across the phone. "Great."

"If I give you the address, can you trace it?" Dean was trying not to panic.

"I can try."

Dean relayed the information, and it sounded like Bobby was about to say something, but at that moment Alistair turned back to Sam, and Dean felt a wave of nausea hit him hard in the face. "Gotta go Bobby," he said and hung up.


	3. Chapter 3

_Alistair turned back to Sam, and Dean felt a wave of nausea hit him hard in the face. "Gotta go Bobby," he said and hung up._

-0-0-

Sam eyed the demon that he thought he had killed with pure hatred. The drug coursing through his veins made the rotting corpse stench of the room vomit-inducing, though he had no food in him. The walls were damp and moldy, and the lone light bulb hanging above his head threatened to blind him. But it was the blade in Alistair's hand that made him react.

"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?" he growled through clenched teeth.

Alistair laughed, genuinely amused, circling him and eyeing him like a butcher does when he's trying to decide the choicest piece of meat to carve. "Kill you? And waste my inborn talent? Ohhh, no, dear Sam. I have much better plans for you."

"Such as?"

"I'm going to make you wish you were never born. I'm going to carve up your pretty, precious little meat-suit so… artistically… that _if _you ever get your soul back—which I highly doubt, by the way—you will be as damaged on the outside as you will be on the inside."

Sam forced a rueful laugh. "That's too bad, then. No point in cutting up a body that doesn't have a soul in it."

Alistair painted a pensive expression on his features. "You know, I've never done this to someone without a soul before, so that's really an interesting theory. But guess what. Soul or not, you can still feel pain. And don't forget, your favorite big brother is going to have a wonderful time watching you suffer, which I think is plenty emotional anguish for the both of you."

The demon touched the cold blade to Sam's throat, twisting it to find the best position but not applying more than a feather's pressure. The edge was so sharp that Sam could feel the hard metal sheer off the tiny hairs that were the beginning of a 5 o'clock shadow beneath his chin. If he even swallowed, the blade would slice a dangerous opening in his neck.

"I wonder if you thought about how this is becoming a bit of a tradition," Alistair pondered, grinning gleefully when Sam winced as he carved a long vertical line beside the tendon in his neck. "First it was your darling daddy, who was annoyingly resistant, and then your arrogant brother, who turned out to be a spectacular apprentice. I guess it runs in the family."

Sam tried not to think about the camera, and when it did flash through his mind beside the excruciating pain of the hacking of his flesh and the bitter iron stench of his blood flowing down his neck, he hoped beyond reason that Dean wasn't actually watching it. He didn't know what it had been like for Dean in Hell, but if it was anything like what this drug was doing to him, he was full of sorrow and grief for his brother. He could hear his skin tearing apart beneath the sharp edge, feel the burning pain in every single tiny nerve ending. Sam grinded his teeth until his jaw ached in an attempt not to cry out from the searing agony that didn't go away even when the slicing and dicing stopped.

"You know, for a while I used to wonder if this kind of… practice… would hurt more on earth or in Hell, but I think I've found my answer. You see, in Hell there's nothing to stop me and I have the power to do things that aren't even possible on this planet, but down there you're also all alone." Alistair thumbed the knife almost playfully, allowing the young man's blood to coat his finger tips. "But I think I've found that having a captive audience, especially one so emotionally involved, is much better. And here's the little twist. Dear old Dean doesn't know where you are, and he isn't going to find you. You're going to be my precious little puppet for as long as I want and he can't do anything but watch."

"Bastard!" Sam hissed venomously, shaking with rage.

Alistair rolled his eyes and dropped his hands to Sam's wrists, leaning his face uncomfortably close to Sam's until the young man's brain oozed with the demon's putrid breath. "That isn't very nice," he mock frowned. Then without warning a hand shot up to clench his throat, throttling fingers ripping and reopening the slices on his neck, the impossibly unbearable pain in his flesh coupled to the dizziness that lack of oxygen pressed into his brain. Sam gasped for air, the tension in his muscles under strong cold fingers further tearing his raw skin, white hot flames licking the passage inside and out, threatening to engulf his brain and plunge him into blackness. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, the fingers disappeared and Sam sputtered, gagging on the air and the pain.

"Now wasn't that fun?" Alistair sang. Sam's chin drooped to his chest, rivulets of sweat running from his crown into his eyes and sticky blood beginning to dry on the collar of his shirt. His head lolled from fatigue.

"Aw, come on Sam, we're just getting started here," his voice oozed with pleasure. "You can't go all MIA on me now." The knife point digging into the tender flesh at the crook of his elbow surprised Sam, his head flying painfully upright again. Alistair chuckled. "That's more like it. Glad to see you're with me." His black eyes still boring into Sam's hazel ones, he twisted the blade in his hand, reveling in the agony he inflicted as the boy squeezed his eyes shut and jammed his teeth together.

"Come on, Sammy boy, talk to me," the demon whispered. "Tell me what's going through that super-charged little brain of yours."

Sam opened his eyes, spat sweat and blood and bile into his torturer's face, and set his expression to seething hatred. Alistair sighed, wiped away the bodily fluids carelessly, then used the same hand to slap the expression off of the young man's face. "I've had about enough of your attitude," he growled. Aiming one solid punch to the temple, his fist connected skull with a sickening crack and Sam's head fell limp and still onto his chest. He grinned and turned to wink at the camera.

"Lights out."

The screen went black.

-0-0-

Dean slumped in the chair, his jaw aching from having clenched his teeth so hard, his face a sickening shade of green. He trembled head to toe, fear and burning rage wracking his body. The shock of seeing his little brother topside and in the hands of his number one enemy had been one thing, but this undeserved cruelty was an anguish he could hardly stand to bear. He mumbled a litany of _'Sammy' _and _'I'm sorry' _and _'why?' _and _'sonofabitch', _but he knew that words weren't going to save his little brother. And that little comment about getting his soul _back_, he was going to have to figure out what that meant and deal with it later. Right now, the most important thing was finding his brother before the torment began again, and then dishing out some serious whoop-ass on that hell-bitch.

Dean punched the speed dial for Bobby again, getting up to pace behind the desk, eyes flickering back to the computer screen with every pass.

"Hello," the gruff voice answered.

"Got anything yet Bobby?" he asked hoarsely.

"I got nothin'," he apologized, the tone of frustration matching exactly how Dean felt. "Couldn' trace the IP address."

"Well, try harder!" Dean shouted, then a beat, "m'sorry Bobby."

The line was silent for a moment, then a sigh. "I know, kid. I'm doin' what I can. What else do we know?"

Dean closed his eyes, doing his best to swallow the growing unease inside. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think objectively. "Alistair's got him in a room somewhere. No windows so, maybe a basement? And he left the note at my house so he's gotta be close."

"M'kay," Bobby grunted, thinking.

Suddenly, Dean jumped. "Bobby! He called me on my cell."

The older man who served as their surrogate father made a tiny grunt of relief. "Try tracin' the number. I'll look inta some abandoned places around the area." The phone in his hand clicked, and he shook his head at Dean's typical way of ending conversations.

-0-0-

Some hours later, Dean screamed in frustration. He'd called the phone company and had absolutely no luck, he'd tried to pin down every detail he could about the whole day, trying not to think of his brother's flowing blood and pained grunts, he'd worn to exhaustion every possible clue, and still he'd come up with nothing.

An unknown amount of time lapsed as Dean recessed into the depths of his mind, so the sound of shuffling downstairs jerked him back to reality unexpectedly. Grabbing the sawed-off shotgun from beneath his side of the bed, he inched out of the room and down the stairs. As he rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the babble of familiar voices forced him to hastily stuff the gun into his jeans and put on a calm face.

Lisa was home from work and was fixing dinner for Ben, who chattered about the highlights of his soccer game with enthusiasm. For a moment Dean stood in the doorway to the kitchen, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that this had been his life for six months, that he had thought he could really escape his past. Lisa turned to the stove and caught a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of her eye.

"Hi babe. Lots of work today?" When he didn't immediately respond, she turned to look at him more closely, noticing warily the blank expression on his face which typically meant that he was trying very hard not to think about something painful. "Everything okay?"

Dean cleared his throat and forced his eyes to refocus his gaze on the two people that he'd begun to think of as his own family. If he lied she would see through him, but she was usually pretty perceptive when it came to deciding whether she should take it for face value or press for more information.

"S'nothin," he said gruffly. "Long day." Lisa raised her eyebrows, but the look on Dean's face clearly told her they'd discuss this later, not in front of Ben.

"Okay," she nodded. "Dinner?"

Dean's mind wandered to the computer upstairs. It had been a few hours, and he Alistair would be starting in again soon. "Not hungry," he mumbled, shooting her an apologetic look as he turned to go back upstairs. Trudging up the steps, he tried to think about what he would tell Lisa. _'Hey, guess what. My brother's back from Hell. Oh yea, and the evil son of a bitch demon that tortured me in Hell has him.' _She'd believe him, but he didn't think it was what he wanted to tell her. And he certainly didn't want her watching.

Somewhere along the line when Dean had been absent, the bare light in the torture chamber had been turned back on. Dean stared at his little brother, alone in the dampness and rank stench, his head moving slightly but not lifting. Then he felt as though a steel fist clamped around his heart when his brother mumbled, _"Dean…"_ his breath ragged, voice broken.

"Sam," Dean groaned, "Oh God, Sammy. _What am I supposed to do?_"


	4. Chapter 4

_Dean stared at his little brother, alone in the dampness and rank stench, his head moving slightly but not lifting. Then he felt as though a steel fist clamped around his heart when his brother mumbled, "Dean…" his breath ragged, voice broken._

"_Sam," Dean groaned, "Oh God, Sammy. What am I supposed to do?"_

-0-0-

Then a thought slammed into him harder than a good blast of the demon mojo that usually tossed him and his brother around like pebbles. God! Or rather, angel.

"Cas!" Dean begged, nearly shouting at the ceiling. "Cas c'mon, please you gotta help me out here!" He glanced around the room impatiently, eyes dancing between the window and his semi-conscious brother on the computer screen. He was about to begin yelling when he heard the nearly inaudible flutter of wings, feeling the presence of another body standing close behind him.

"Cas," he muttered, turning to lock eyes with him.

"Dean," the angel returned stoically.

"It's Alistair. He has Sam."

Cas's confused expression didn't last long, and Dean gathered that he was using his super telekinetic angel brain juice to read into several people's minds for the meaning behind Dean's statement. A dawning comprehension followed, and he nodded, now up to speed.

"Cas you gotta find him," Dean demanded.

A hint of a frown appeared on his face. "I can't. The Inokian charms make him imperceptible to me."

Dean growled, grabbing the angel by the front of his trench coat. "Alistair found him and he's a demon, so there's gotta be a way and you're gonna find it."

Castiel frowned pensively. "Yes, I see now. I will have to locate Alistair. But it won't be easy. He's surely covered his tracks thoroughly." With a soft whoosh he vanished, leaving Dean grasping at thin air.

"Angels," he muttered angrily, then slumped down into the chair at the desk to stare at the room Sam was confined in.

Alistair was playing him like a god damned fiddle, and Dean began to wonder if there would ever be a day when their lifestyle would cease to bite them in the ass. Footsteps on the creaking floorboards outside the bedroom door pulled him temporarily out of his despair, and with a last furtive glance at his brother's pale slumped form, he slammed the laptop shut. Lisa stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and concern splayed across her features.

"So what's going on, Dean?"

Dean pressed a hand to his forehead, fingers digging into his temples in attempted calm. "Lisa, I've got to go for a while. I can't explain."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sure, she was aware that he had nightmares of the terrible things he imagined his brother going through in Hell, she knew that he was overly cautious about certain things, jumped at unexpected noises, could be a little paranoid, but she thought that he had for the most part left the old life behind. She wouldn't lie to herself and say that she hadn't expected him to run out on her, but it still came as a bit of a shock.

"Will you at least tell me what this is about?" she asked, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. She patted the place next to her, pleading with her eyes. Dean joined her on the bed, but didn't touch her. He hung his head wearily.

"It's about Sam," he finally admitted, trying to hide the pain in his broken voice.

"Sam?" she couldn't hide her concerned curiosity. "Honey, we can get you help for the dreams. You don't have to leave."

Dean shook his head, his lips pursed. "No, you don't get it. It's Sam. He's back. And he's in trouble."

Lisa turned her gaze toward Dean's averted face. She knew him well enough to detect the glimmer of withheld tears, the clenched jaw and the bobbing adam's apple as he tried to swallow his hurt, the shoulders that curled up as the guilt inside tore him up. She would never question his love for her and her son, but this kind of agony only came from the love of family. Blood.

She was past questioning the finer points of the bizarre life her boyfriend led. She had seen and heard just enough to know that if Dean said his brother was back from the dead, back from Hell, in danger because of some weirdo evil thing, then he probably was. What she never really knew for sure was where she stood in the picture; just that it was not first in line when it came to Sam Winchester.

"What are you going to do?" She asked, placing a comforting hand on Dean's neck.

Dean tensed, wanting to feel comforted by her touch, but all he could feel was mind-numbing fear. He swallowed, his mouth dry. "Listen, Lisa, I just need some time." She sighed and nodded, leaving the room wordlessly. Dean let out a huge breath of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then rather reluctantly pushed himself off the bed and toward the computer. He didn't want to see this, he really didn't; he knew it was part of the whole deal, Alistair knew he'd be watching and that was half of the reason he'd kidnapped Sam in the first place. But it was his little brother, and if he was going to suffer, he wasn't going to do it alone.

-0-0-

He stood behind the desk momentarily, shifting from one foot to the other, hands itching for the computer. Flip it open. Or don't? _"Damnit," _he groaned, pressing the power button after all. Snatching up the paper, he typed the web address with trembling fingers. "I need a drink for this," he grumbled, but stopped before he could finish the thought. The video feed was running, but he'd missed the opening number this time around. Alistair was already well into round two.

"AhhHHH you hell-spawned sonofabitch," Sam groaned through gritted teeth. Dean couldn't see much other than his brother's hands, bound to the arms of the chair and gripping them fiercely. His knuckles were pearly, translucent white but his forearms seemed to be marred by angry red smears and blisters. Alistair moved aside and Dean caught a flash of the red-hot poking rod that he held in his right hand.

"How do you like that venom that's coursing through your veins right now, Sammy my boy?"

Sam's chest rose and fell sharply, his breath coming out in strong puffs as he tried to control himself from screaming. "It's Sam," he spat.

"Tomato, tomoto." The demon twirled the iron spike in his hand lazily, relishing how the boy's eyes followed it's every arcing movement, and then he brought the rod closer and closer to a patch of untouched skin on the underside of Sam's arm. He moved slowly, feeling the apprehension mount as the hot spike came closer, loving every moment of building up his fear. Finally metal touched skin with a sickening sizzle, and Dean felt his eyes water when Sam's head flew back and he screamed.

Alistair laughed cruelly, removing the hot blade only to jab it quickly into the back of the boy's hand. Sam screamed again and squirmed in the chair, his back arching, sweat and drool flowing down his face.

"Internal pain is so much harder to bear than external pain," his voice smooth and black as satin. "I mean I've been burned my fair share of times, but that poison I put in you is something else. Every beat of your heart spreads it further throughout your body. Every inch of you_ blazes _white hot. From your toes all the way up to your eyeballs, you're burning inside and out. Pity." He waited for Sam's screams to taper off, amused by the small whimpers that escaped from time to time as another wave of the venom hit him like a flamethrower.

He circled the chair slowly, his steps echoing off the stone floor and walls, then stopped behind the chair. Taking a large handful of Sam's long hair, he jerked his head back, exposing his sliced and bloody throat from earlier. Lowering his face down so that his chin brushed Sam's forehead, Alistair looked directly into the camera while he pressed the hot iron rod to Sam's cheek. Sam's eyes rolled back and he howled again, the sound weak and shattered due to overuse.

"You know what I find utterly fulfilling about all of this, Sam? It's the fact that you blame _yourself, _while your brother blames _himself. _If you were never born, none of this would be happening, dear John and Dean wouldn't have gone to Hell, Mommy and Jess wouldn't have died, and maybe a whole lot of other people would have been much better off."

Tears coursed down Sam's face, clearing murky trails through blood and sweat and grime. Dean didn't know if it was from the pain or the blasphemy coming out of Alistair's mouth, but he swore to himself that he was going to slaughter the bastard.

"Then there's your brother. My favorite. He feels responsible for you. In his sad, pathetic little mind, everything I do to you is his fault. He'll never forgive himself. I wonder if I can make you blame him, too."

"Go to Hell!" Sam grunted. Alistair smiled mockingly.

"You know, I don't think I will. You wouldn't want that, anyway. I'd just pop down to little old Lucifer's cage and join in all the fun he and Michael are having with your soul right now. I don't see how that would make things any better for you. Do you?"

Alistair let go of Sam's hair, and he raised his head with an extreme amount of effort. It wobbled on his weak neck, but he tried to look into the camera. He hadn't wanted to think about his brother, but if Dean were watching, he had to try to get him a message. Dean stared into Sam's frantic eyes, pupils so dilated that he could barely see the hazel, face and arms torched and raw, neck flayed and bloody, and begged that he would be able to save him. His gut clenched painfully when Sam's eyes locked shut as another pass of the poison hit him.

"Dean!" he panted as it passed.

The demon, who had turned his back to arrange something else on the table, laughed coldly. "Oh, that's just precious. You think big brother is going to come and save the day?" Sam's head rolled down and he stared across the room through his lashes. "Think again little boy. Now I'm sorry but this might sting a little."

Sam watched the red light blinking on the camera, trying to focus on something to hold on to consciousness. Then scalding water rushed down his back, torching and steaming his skin. He moaned in agony and dropped his head completely, his half-opened eyes gazing dully into his lap.

"This is what Hell feels like, Sam. Sweltering and excruciating. This is how your brother felt for forty years, and it's all your fault."

"Dean, don' lis'n," Sam groaned, unable to lift his head. "S'not. True."

"Enough!" Alistair shouted, the tiniest hint of impatience in his voice. "I think I'm just going to let you burn in here. Have fun riding out the storm." Alistair stomped up to the camera, completely blocking Dean's view of his brother. He spoke to the camera. "Just so you know, Deano, that poison flooding through his body won't kill him. Oh no, much worse. It'll get worse and worse for about twelve hours. It's going to make him wish he were dead. In fact, it's going to make YOU wish he were dead. Eat that up." Then he vanished, followed by the slam of a door, and Dean was left staring at the lump of his barely conscious brother once again.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Just so you know, Deano, that poison flooding through his body won't kill him. Oh no, much worse. It'll get worse and worse for about twelve hours. It's going to make him wish he were dead. In fact, it's going to make YOU wish he were dead. Eat that up." Then he vanished, followed by the slam of a door, and Dean was left staring at the lump of his barely conscious brother once again._

-0-0-

Dean could only sit still for so long, watching his brother's body twist in agony as he was scorched from the inside out. After a while he began pacing, then he started pleading with God, and finally he called Bobby.

"Bobby, please tell me you've been able to find something. I'm goin' crazy here."

"I think I've maybe got a lead-" 

"What?" Dean nearly jumped.

"I don't know for sure, Dean-"

"Bobby! What is it?" he demanded, his tone dark.

"Well it wasn't easy, but I was paying attention to the… er… weapons, that Alistair was using. Turns out a few of them were pretty unique. There's only a few places he could've got 'em."

Dean felt his heart pick up its pace. "And?"

"Well, if you're still thinkin' he's stickin' nearby, there's a place a few towns away from where ya are. Maybe you oughta poke around there."

Dean was already in the drawer for the Impala keys. "Where?"

Once he had the address he ignored Bobby's "be careful Dean" and Lisa's worried expression as he bolted out the door, jumped in the car, and sped out of town.

-0-0-

The place where Bobby sent him ended up being a shady joint in an alley behind some bar, whose customers did not look too friendly. He wouldn't've been surprised if more than one of them was playing host to a black-eyed guest of honor. Dean parked the impala across the street and slipped around back, double-fisting his pistol with a silver dagger stashed in his boot. He approached a partially hidden steel door with green paint chipping off and, taking a deep breath, pounded two times. The door opened a crack, closed, then swung open and two beefy henchmen even taller and thrice as thick as his brother stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking his entrance.

When neither of them spoke, Dean cleared his throat. "Look fellas, I gotta talk to someone in there so if you wouldn't mind just stepping aside, I'd really appreciate it." They didn't blink. "Alright, what do you say we make an arrangement?" He reached slowly into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash, waving it in front of them. "You can come with if you want. I just got a few questions."

The two guys glanced at each other momentarily, then one of them reached for the money while the other one grabbed his bicep in a crushing grip and yanked him forward.

"Easy, Thor," Dean muttered, earning himself an angry stare from the much larger man who was leading him like a dog. They led him to a cluttered old office in the back of the place, where a young man waited for them. Dressed up in a pinstriped monkey suit, shiny shoes, and slicked black hair, he appeared to be a young Italian snot wearing his daddy's money, but Dean could see in his eyes that he had ancient knowledge and experience. "Oh great," he mumbled under his breath. More demons. It's always the hell-bitches that gave him the most trouble.

"Dean Winchester," his voice was silky smooth, and amused. "I've heard a lot about you. Seems you like to get mixed up with the wrong sorts just a little too often. Soo, what can I do for you?"

Dean grimaced and jerked his arm out of the bodyguard's grasp, rubbing it slightly. "I've got a question for you."

"Of course you do. No telling if I'll help you, though. Or whether or not I'll kill you. Seems a bit reckless to go walking right into a room full of demons, don't you think?"

Dean, pursed lips and raised eyebrows, bobbed his head in his typical 'well-no-one-said-I-was-smart' fashion, and shrugged. "Have you seen this guy around lately?" he asked, pulling out a picture of Alistair that he'd taken from a freeze frame of the feed.

The man took the picture from Dean, pretending to be decidedly uninterested, though Dean knew otherwise. "And if I have? What's in it for me?"

He took a deep breath, hoping that his information was accurate, and took the plunge. "Well from what I understand, this asshole has been boning you for a while now. I can take him out. Thing is, I don't know where he is."

"_You _are going to do a favor for _me? _A demon."

Dean tilted his head with an unconcerned expression. "I don't like the guy. You could say I have a… personal vendetta. So? What do ya say, hmm?"

The young Italian boy turned and paced quietly, staring at the photo in his hand. Maybe he could take this guy out on his own, but why try it when he could send in an expendable meat-sack with no cost to himself. If the guy succeeded, it benefitted him directly, and if he died, he was just a human so no harm done. Finally he stopped in front of Dean, his eyes flooding completely black, and he grinned maliciously. "Well, I suppose it's your funeral."

-0-0-

As Dean sped through the night, feeling as though he weren't able to drive fast enough even though he was well over the speed limit, he tried to formulate some kind of plan. Tortured and dying brother or not, it wouldn't do either of them a lick of good if he just burst through the doors and demanded a refund.

"I agree," a monotonous voice toned from the passenger seat.

"Cas!" Dean jumped, jerking the wheel dangerously toward oncoming traffic. "A little warning!"

"My apologies," the angel replied.

"No offense Cas, but if you aren't here to blast this bastard to a place where he'll never be able to come back from, I don't really want to see you right now."

"I'm here to help," Castiel responded, not sounding at all like he cared. But that was Cas's way.

"Oh well good. That makes things easier."

"This is not going to be easy, Dean."

Dean sighed. "Yea thanks for that. Way to lighten the mood." The angel didn't respond. "Any bright ideas?"

Castiel betrayed no emotion. "Usually I just follow your orders."

"Awesome," Dean rolled his eyes. They pulled up to the front of the building; an old abandoned warehouse, now boarded up and covered by various types of weed and growth.

"Wait here," Castiel commanded, and was gone with a flutter before Dean could even open his mouth.

"I hate it when you do that," he grumbled.

"Alistair is in the basement with Sam. I took care of the others."

Dean whipped around; Castiel had returned only seconds later. He opened his mouth as if to make a retort, then sighed. "Okay. Thanks. Let's go."

-0-0-

The path from the front door to the basement steps was littered with unconscious bodies, causing Dean to feel rather grateful to have an angel on his side, however impassive he could be at times. They tiptoed through the dark, Dean straining all his senses in an attempt to pinpoint his brother. After several minutes wandering around in pitch black hallways, Dean began to feel incredibly frustrated, but stopped when he heard agonized screams from the end of the corridor.

Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned to Castiel and took off in a stealthy sprint toward the room where the noise came from. When he reached the door he paused to listen; there was definitely shuffling footsteps, and then gut-wrenching familiar moans of pain. Dean toed the door open, bracing himself with his gun, and slipped inside. One quick glance at his brother told him that he was almost too late, but there was still time. Alistair stood at the torture table, his back to the door.

Getting as close as he dared, Dean took a stabilizing breath and shouted, "Hey, sucker, I'm here to crash your party."

The demon chuckled and turned slowly, eyeing the older brother with amusement. "Dean, Dean. It's been so long, I've really missed you. I'm glad you've come to join us." He placed a hand on Sam's head, caressing it almost lovingly, then dug his fingernails into the scalp. Dean heard the sharp intake of breath from his brother and tightened his finger on the trigger.

"Get away from him before I blow your brains out," Dean threatened.

"Temper, temper," Alistair scolded. "Why don't you take a moment to relax." With a flick of his hand, Dean was thrown against the opposite wall and the gun dropped to the floor. "Yes, that's better. Now where were we?"

He turned his attention back to Sam, whose face was swollen, his chest and arms bleeding profusely. Apparently Alistair had been busy since Dean had left. Under the grime, Sam's face was ashen, his pulse slow. His blood was draining quickly and the prolonged torture had sapped most of his strength.

"You're rather pitiful, really. Your brother, he put up a very good fight. Thirty years he fought me. You haven't lasted more than two days, Sam. You really aren't much fun. Perhaps I should end you now."

"You filthy bastard, if you touch him again I swear I will rip you apart until there aren't any pieces of you left," Dean shouted furiously. Alistair turned to him, half amused and half annoyed.

"You just can't stay out of other people's business, can you Dean?"

"This IS my business, bitch!"

"Ah yes, I'd forgotten what a nasty tone you have. You might want to watch that."

"Actually, you should watch yourself," Dean gloated. Alistair raised his eyebrows at the sound of triumph in his voice, and then looked down in surprise. A long blade thrust between his shoulder blades sliced through his heart and poked out the front of his chest. He turned around with only enough time to blink before Castiel placed a palm to his forehead. Alistair flickered and burned, and then exploded with a flash. The body he'd been inhabiting crumbled dead at Dean's feet as he fell to the floor, released from the demon's power.

"Thanks Cas," he said as he rushed over to his brother. "Sam!" he gasped, untying the ropes and chains that held his brother down. As he pulled the younger man into his arms, a powerful surge of disbelief washed through him. After six months, he held his brother in his grasp. Wounded, but very real, and alive. He could deal with the bumps and bruises and broken bones.

Sam groaned into Dean's shoulder, blood dribbling from his mouth. He clutched his older brother hard, as if to reassure himself that this wasn't a hallucination.

"I'm here, Sammy. I've gotchya. Hang on, Sam. It's gonna be alright," Dean droned continuously as he dragged his limp brother out of the building. Castiel was gone, but they'd been doing this for years. He could fix it on his own. He laid his brother on the front seat as carefully as he could, then slipped into the driver side of the Impala and started her up. Sam's head rested on his leg the whole time they raced to Bobby's place, and Dean kept one hand on the side of his brother's neck—honestly, to comfort the both of them.

-0-0-

Bobby heard the rumble of the car approaching and stood at the door waiting before they had even gotten all the way down the driveway. When Dean put her in park, Bobby rushed out to meet him.

"How is he?" He asked, noticing the blood on Dean's hands and clothes.

"He'll live. Help me out." Between the two of them, they hoisted up the overgrown Winchester boy and hauled him into the house. Dean suggested they do the work on him in the panic room, unwelcoming as it was, just in case.

A few hours later, Sam was asleep and about as well patched up as he could be, under the circumstances. Bobby, after making sure ten times over that they were fine, trudged back upstairs to clean up and make a few phone calls. Dean stayed back with Sam, sitting next to him on the cot, holding his brother's wrist lightly.

He couldn't force himself away, even if he was desperately in need of a shower, food, and rest. His emotions had been on edge for over 24 hours, but he couldn't get over the fact that his brother was really there next to him. He wouldn't let go, for fear of losing him if he let him out of reach.

Sam groaned and his eyelids opened halfway. He gazed at Dean groggily, comprehension coming very slowly. When he finally realized it was his brother, he tried to sit up, but Dean pushed his shoulder down gently but firmly.

"Shhhh, Sammy. It's alright."

Sam glanced around the room, slowly taking in the details until his brain was able to piece together the location. His muscles relaxed, but his eyes held weariness and hurt.

"He was lying, you know," Sam croaked, then swallowed painfully. Dean offered him a glass of water, which he took gratefully.

"About what?"

"About my soul," Sam responded tiredly after a long gulp of water. Dean gazed at his brother, trying not to look too concerned. "I still have it. I was there the whole time. When he-"

Dean's eyes watered as certain images flooded his memory, and he turned his head to wipe away the unshed tears. He turned back, a twisted grimace painting his face. "I'm sorry, Sammy. That dickwad is a real pain in my ass. This is my fault."

Sam shook his head despite the pain in his neck. "S'not your fault, Dean."

"Sam, I-"

"Dean," Sam cut in, stopping his older brother's speech. "Don't." He closed his eyes as phantom pains wracked his body, and he trembled under his brother's hand.

Carefully, Dean took his brother by the arms and pulled him into a tight grasp, one arm around his shoulders and the other hand buried deep in his brother's hair, cradling the back of his head. Sam sunk into his brother's embrace, allowed his bruised face to find its way to the crook of Dean's neck and shoulder. This was comfort for them, this was healing. He buried his face in the scent of his brother's clothes and skin and let the sobs come.

Dean clung to his little brother as he felt his body shake and crumble under his arms. He felt like his heart was being crushed in an iron vice because he knew the pain his brother was going through, and he knew he couldn't stop it. He could only hold on to him to prevent the pieces from falling apart. He would be Sam's solid ground for as long as he needed, forever. Dean was never going to let him go. Maybe this meant that his brother would never be the same, but it wasn't going to be without his strongest efforts.

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm always gonna be here. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You hear?"

Sam nodded into Dean's shoulder. He felt like he was going to crumble into dust, but he knew that his brother would always be there to sweep up the pieces and put him back together again. Because Sam and Dean weren't whole without the other, and they had each other's backs.

-[ The End ]-

I hope you liked it, and I hope you'll leave comments and/or critiques when you've finished. This was my first SPN fic, so I'm sorry if it isn't the most accurate, but once the idea was in my head I couldn't ignore it.

Thanks for reading.


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